


The Lying Librarian

by OneSmartChicken



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU Medieval, Always-a-girl!Stiles, BAMF!Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Kidnapping, Magic!Stiles, On Hiatus, Royalty, Still Werewolves, not abandoned! just...paused, not really angsty or fluffy, prince!derek, straight-up fantasy, various other people as royalty and stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneSmartChicken/pseuds/OneSmartChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles speaks another language when Derek and his knights kidnap her. And then there's magic and stuff happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Literally the only reason for this existing is I had an image in my head in which Stiles talked a lot but Derek couldn't understand anything, but she could understand him and was basically just being a dick. Except then there was like a smidge of plot so Stiles became the human(ish) prisoner of werewolves! Whoo! This was just a drabble but oops I accidentally plot'd uh I dunno if I'll actually go anywhere with this honestly but whatevs
> 
> I put Stiles' language in italics! It's not entirely accurate how I've done it, honestly, since languages don't really convert as easily as I made them seem to here. But I treated both like English so when anyone messes up a word it's just weirdly garbled English, so hopefully it like, translates to you. It seemed like the best way to do it since it's written mostly from Stiles' perspective.
> 
> (I didn't even freaking try with the names of like the countries and languages and stuff, honestly. I sort of kept putting off putting a name to them at all until I went "oh screw it" and just called them whatever popped into my head. They're all made-up as heck because I don't want to have to pretend to care about accuracy. Any similarities are purely accidental cause I'm just bullshitting my way along kthx)

Their prisoner had made a friend. Out of Scott. Derek rued the day his uncle had been won over by those puppy dog eyes.

Stiles leaned back against the surprisingly comfortable wagon seat, tuning out the jangle of chains when she shuffled her feet to accommodate the new pose. " _There is a city by the sea,_ " she started up in her own language, still genuinely overjoyed to have found someone who at least knew some of the old tongue. It was good he was fool too, or fool enough to not know how old the tongue was--or perhaps only not of a mind to mention that to the others, for Scott, while not a mastermind, was certainly not dim. She gestured, as she always did, in great, grand sweeps with her whole body nearabout, trying to shape her own words in the air for Scott to picture better. " _In--not my homeland, but one nearer it than here. It is beautiful, you would not believe. And there is a building, grand and spectacular as only palaces are elsewhere, which contains only books and shelves for the books and care equipment and caretakers._ "

She was prepared to continue enthusing about what was truly one of her favorite places, but Scott suddenly looked confused, though no less enthusiastic. She paused, tracing back over her words in search of one he may not have recognized. Finding nothing that stood out more than any other, she tilted her head and made an inquiring noise.

"Uh, oh right, uhm, two-- _two words, didn't really...fondle._ " Scott was still butchering her language of course, but at least he was leaning in the right direction, thanks to her gentle nudges and corrections over the past week.

" _Catch,_ " she corrected automatically, a little firmer than usual, spurred on by a very strong desire to never hear Scott vocalize _fondle_ again. It felt as if a previously pleasant, sensual word had been suddenly ruined for her.

Scott, unaware of her pain, bobbed his head eagerly, looking appreciative as always. "Right, _didn't catch._ I think it was-- _'hoemlliang' and, how did you say it, uh, b--buks?_ I think." It was a good thing she actually could understand his tongue or else she would have been hopelessly confused, especially with how he absolutely garbled the words in question. She grimaced at him, trying to convey her disapproval without actually disapproving for fear of the puppy eyes.

Deciding not to dwell on all that was wrong with Scott's communication skills, she held out her hands in front of her, pantomiming reading. " _Books_ ," she reiterated, hands dancing over imagining pages as if tracing lines of text, then flipping invisible page. She racked her brain as she repeated the word a few times, along with a few searching noises as he continued to look confused. "Is--ah, th--you say, _maybe, that is, I believe your word would be,_ 'books.'" She knew she had over-enunciated the word, but it had come out clear, not entirely mauled by her accent but not too clear either, and was gratified when Scott's face lit up. She grinned, nodding. "And, _homeland. It is my--the place my heart is always tugged towards. Place of birth, to some, but not all. Homeland, yes?_ " Scott puzzled over this while she waited, resisting the urge to tap lest he mistake it for impatience; Scott's 'confused puppy' face was cute enough for her not to mind waiting for him to think things through. His face lit up after only a few moments of scrunching his nose and biting the inside of his gum, which was a few moments of adorable that she would never mind. She fidgeted of course, but Scott had figured out remarkably quick that she couldn't help fidgeting and she knew he wouldn't mind her tugging at her clothes and metaphorically twiddling her thumbs.

" _Right, we say_ books-- _as you know, apparently,_ " he informed her, pausing to grin. " _And for, what did you say? Uh, h--hoemelaind? For that one, sorry, we say,_ homeland." Being taught a language she already knew was somewhat annoying, honestly, but a necessary evil. She was just glad she had practice at pretending to learn things; her various teachers hadn't always approved of her reading ahead, literally or otherwise.

Lifting her brows and trying to look interested, she smiled at him in what she hoped was a grateful fashion. "Ahn, _that is, you say--_ home-lahnd?" Her head tilted, blinking owlishly at him. Scott's grin was instantaneously and so innocently delighted that she felt guilt stab her right in the heart, tightening her belly. She sort of hoped she never had to admit to understanding his tongue all along; his look of betrayal would probably be worse than getting stabbed. And, considering she'd been stabbed before, she would know.

"Yeah!" Scott yelped, practically vibrating with happiness. " _You got it! Nice!_ " Stiles ducked her head slightly in real embarrassment; another thing she was grateful to Scott for was that she rarely actually needed to fake anything, other than the falsified language barrier. She gave a little roll of her shoulders as she smiled sheepishly at him.

" _It is a much easier word in your language than mine,_ " she told him modestly, and he laughed, unable to argue that. Letting out a little cough to bring them back on topic, Stiles leaned back, adjusting her posture once more, accompanied by more rattling of chains. " _But the, the library--it is beautiful. And it sits just in the middle of the city, adjacent--that is, next to the home of the city's ruler. Not monarch; the nation is large enough to have several large cities, and they each have their own ruler who reports to the royal family. Does your land have this?_ " She looked with innocent curiosity at Scott, hoping he wouldn't decide this was something he wasn't supposed to share. He had been clear about the fact that he was under strict instructions to not give away much about the land she was being carted off to--traveling through now, actually--but Stiles was damn near desperate to learn anything at all. Lycan was not a place she had ever visited, or even thought to learn much about. Which seemed horribly ill-prepared of her considering her current circumstances, but the closest she had ever gotten to Lycan there had still been an entire country between them, and considering that country was the rather large Ralke, she had never thought she would need to bother with Lycan. But by the time she and her people learned that Lycan and Ralke had quietly decided to merge their countries, accompanied by a political marriage that should have had more than enough fanfare to give them ample warning but _no, of course not_ , Lycan had decided, for whatever reason, to start messing with Viche. Why they would mess with little Viche, Stiles had no idea.

Viche, Stiles' homeland, was a tiny nation, surrounded by no less than five other nations, all of them significantly larger. They were a peaceful land, prosperous enough to be happy but not so rich as to be a tempting target. Their greatest treasure and the only thing Stiles could think of being worth attacking Viche worthwhile was never advertised, barely even known of by most of their own people, in fact. Viche was mostly seen as a neutral trading route, used frequently by merchants to travel between the five adjoining nations without worrying about border patrols taking offense or messing with their cargo. Admittedly, they had had a few assassins and other lawbreakers slip through their rather gentle border checks, but they were always cooperative with the other nations' searches for criminals. Most of their prosperity came from the merchant trade, both from their own people traveling out, or other merchants passing through, so their borders _had_ to be friendly. Which explained how the Lycans had kidnapped Stiles so easily, actually.

But, on the subject of what they could possibly be after--Stiles could only hope it was simply something she herself hadn't thought of. She doubted they were after gold or treasure, since no one in Viche had much of that; their merchants traded almost solely in the exotic plants that grew in Viche's unique lands, and in equally exotic animals from those same lands, or, more commonly, in crafts from their numerous artisans, for Viche was notoriously full of competent artists of wide variety. But no one had much more than the occasional trinket or bit of gold when it came to traditional valuables. Their riches were usually found in their farms or their collection of arts, and it seemed _odd_ to be kidnapped for a painting, in Stiles' opinion, at least by clearly well-off men and women who were likely prosperous soldiers, some of them even baring noble crests. Not to mention that at least five, according to Stiles' count, were werewolves. Which, up until a week ago, Stiles hadn't even thought were real. When she had voiced her questions about flashing eyes and what she was pretty sure was some sort of very strange morph of the face, though she had only caught the briefest glimpse before the person in question had moved out of her view, to Scott, he had carefully shown her his own shift. She had promptly burst into laughter at the irony of her having been comparing him to a puppy since their first meeting. There had been some mild hysterics, even milder than Scott thought; she had had a panic attack by trying to act more alarmed by the existence of werewolves than she was(she had met far stranger things), and in trying to act panicked, she had started thinking about the new difficulties posed by their wolfyness, about how, unprepared, her eventual rescuers would likely be slaughtered, and then she had _actually_ panicked because the very thought of what would probably be her friends being so much as _hurt_ was absolutely unbearable, and thus, panic attack. Poor Scotty had been in tears by the time she could breathe again, although he had been patient and gentle as he tried to talk her through it.

So no, she didn't know what these werewolves wanted, but she very much hoped that was only due to lack of creativity on her part. Because if they wanted her country's secret--if they wanted the magic that slept beneath their city, even if they wanted only to harness the tendrils that gave their lands such _uniqueness_ , and they had known enough to take _her_ rather than any of the royal family, then the possible consequences were...unimaginable and vastly varied, depending on how the situations played out and what the Lycans' intentions were.

In response to her question about Lycan's size, Scott apparently saw no problems with responding. Which was fortunate, although not genuinely that useful since she did know quite a bit about Ralke, even if she didn't know anything about Lycan, and Ralke had certainly been large enough to warrant multiple cities with individual 'mayors'. She would take what she could get though. Even getting him to talk about something useless was progress, since a week ago he was resolutely close-lipped on anything other than the most idle of chatter. She had been slowly dragging information out of him, but none of it had been useful. No one had ever accused Stiles of being anything less than mulish in her stubborn tendencies though. Stiles listened with rapt attention as he told her about the various dishes specific to certain cities, although she had no idea why he had started telling her about them. It was at least more interesting than simply staring at the inside of the wagon, and far better for her mental health since while focused on translating his mauling of her language and correcting it here and there, she couldn't focus on all the things that she could do nothing about. Not yet, at least.

Scott was winding down on his random food tangent when things suddenly became so much more interesting. Stiles opened her mouth, prepared to try and prompt him into another tangent hopefully, or launch into one of her own, but was interrupted by a hiss from the back of the wagon, a blond werewolf who's name she didn't know sticking her head in to hiss, "Your highness!"

Stiles blinked as Scott automatically turned away to blink at the scowling femme fatale. _Ex-fucking-cuse me?_ Stiles thought, managing to keep herself from gaping somehow. Scott glanced at her, looking concerned for a moment, but her expression must have been suitably innocent since he smiled and turned back to the woman.

"Erica, we don't know how much of our language she knows, remember?" Scott reminded her, though it didn't sound like he personally was concerned about it. The woman, Erica apparently, rolled her eyes so hard Stiles feared her eyes might pop out and start rolling more efficiently on the wagon floor. Stiles had to suppress a shudder at the image, actually, because that was horrifying and her imagination took things way too far.

"Whatever; Scott, your cousin's looking for you, and if he finds out you're talking to her--" Erica sneered the word, jerking her head at Stiles with a disdainful expression--"he'll probably rip your throat out. With his teeth."

"So he's assured me," Scott said, surprisingly dry considering his dopey character. "Multiple times." Despite his evident lack of concern for his cousin's threats, he turned towards her with a sheepish smile. " _Sorry, my upper is summing me. I'll barrack late, okay?_ " Stiles really needed to get Scott a translation dictionary or something.

With a wide smile, she nodded. " _Yes, of course. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble,_ " she assured him, already familiar with his lingering tendencies. Erica shot her one last dirty look before launching herself off the wagon, which was when it occurred to Stiles that the wagon was definitely still in motion and werewolves were fucking freaks. Scott's parting glance was friendly and still apologetic, but he jumped out of the moving wagon with the same theatrics Erica had employed.

Stiles sighed, settling in to wallow in her own emotional turmoil.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still stuck in a wagon, still pretending not to understand a word Derek and his knights say, Stiles bonds with Scott a bit, freaks out a bit, and reminisces a bit.
> 
> More importantly, what happened to her boots?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! So hey holy crap I guess y'all are fans of medieval-ish AUs, eh? Or maybe I'm just not the only one who likes when Stiles screws with Derek in some what or another(plus, hey, kidnapping's always fun in fics). I did not expect that and congrats guys, you convinced me to continue with this. Uh, expect totally irregular updates?
> 
> As a disclaimer or whatever, my knowledge of all things prior to like the 70's is purely from hastily skimmed wikipedia articles and a fair amount of fantasy novels that were usually not overly committed to accuracy, plus the usual amount of schooling I never paid enough attention to. I sort of just...Nodded my head at accuracy, honestly, and then blatantly burned it spectacularly. Consider this more "medieval-inspired" than actually medieval. In my defense, it's a fantasy world and _I do what I want_. (really though there's a lot of very not-at-all medieval going on because honestly I just wanted knights and princes and shit not actual medievalness)
> 
> Look, there's more Derek POV in here! I don't know why, I just had an urge and I kinda wanted to give you a better idea of what characters I've included(not all of them, but most of the main cast, ignoring season 3 pretty much entirely). At some point I'll post everyone with their titles, but not just yet.
> 
> I'm trying to keep you in the dark about Stiles a bit for the time being. Hopefully it's not completely blatant and/or annoying. I added the BAMF!Stiles tag because I try to always write Stiles as a complete BAMF(because let's face it; Stiles is totes a BAMF). Thank you everyone for your enthusiastic response to this, I spent a lot of time making inhuman noises and flopping around like a beached fish.

The tents were all set up, the horses watered and picketed, and those who weren't already abed were finishing their supper. There were sentries posted, as there always were, but this far in to their own land, everyone was relaxed and content, glad to return home at last. They had come a long way for one unassuming woman. Scott was of the "finishing up supper" variety, lingering longer than necessary around the fire.

Derek scowled at his cousin, a man he had treated more like a younger brother for as long as either could remember. As a kid, Scott had been an irritating tagalong, like a lost duckling stubbornly trailing after either Derek or Laura at all times. He and Cora had been insufferable, somehow managing to plot against their "big siblings" while simultaneously worshipping them. Cora had grown out of the worshipping phase far too soon, in Derek's opinion; their supposedly sweet little princess was a demon in disguise. He wasn't looking forward to when the twins reached that age. He was personally of the opinion that children should stay about five years old; just skip over most of their teen years and straight into adulthood. And they should definitely not continue being heathens into their second decade, like a certain wicked princess. At least Scott had turned out sweet.

_Too_ sweet, actually.

Technically Derek had told Scott when they picked up their prisoner to "keep her from panicking;" he hadn't wanted her to hurt herself, after all. Scott's puppy dog eyes were his greatest asset, as attested by the fact he had managed to convince Uncle Peter to let him become a functioning knight of the kingdom. What he had not intended was for Scott to be spending most of the day chatting with her. The third day he realized Scott was riding in the wagon with her, he had suggested perhaps Scott could at least try to learn something useful from her. Or rather, he had commanded Boyd to suggest it to Scott; Derek was personally going to go on pretending not to know, for plausible deniability should it become a problem. Since then Scott had been eagerly reporting all of their conversations to Boyd, which Boyd reported in turn to Derek. Scott very enthusiastically informed them that 'Stiles'("What the Hell is a Stiles?" he had asked Boyd, and received an entirely unhelpful and highly judgmental look from his most stoic of knights.) had done a great deal of travelling and then he proceded to attempt to tell Boyd all about the places she had told him about. It was all very interesting, and completely useless. Less than useless. Derek would think their prisoner exceptionally clever, except in reality he was fairly certain Scott was simply too dim to even attempt to steer their conversations in a useful direction.

Derek loved his cousin, but the man was certainly not the sharpest dagger in the armory.

Which was why poor Erica was looking like a drowned harpy while Scott enthusiasically moped at her. Derek didn't even have to eavesdrop to know Scott was, once again, crying about the distance between he and Princess Allison. Never mind that it was Scott who had insisted on coming along for this particular mission, although, to be fair, he had thought Allison would be coming as well at the time. Archduke Christopher had evidently needed her assistance in hunting down a wolf gone rogue. Knowing Chris had plenty of perfectly capable hunters who weren't his daughter, Derek personally suspected Chris couldn't help messing with Scott now and then, still holding a fatherly grudge against the man who had swept Allison off her feet. Derek could tell Chris that it had in fact been the other way around, but that might discourage Chris's meddling, and, like many others, he rather enjoyed the petty little pranks and Scott's obliviousness. He just wished he hadn't had to be stuck listening and watching his cousin mope for over a fortnight for this particular "prank".

At the edge of his hearing, he heard a heartbeat skip, then shoot into overdrive. He turned away from Scott and Erica, who didn't appear to have noticed it. With a frown, he started automatically towards it, tuning in until it guided him on like an audible beacon. It didn't surprise him when the wagon came into view, Boyd standing by with two human guards. The big, dark man was frowning at the canvas-covered wagon, looking surprisingly torn between orders and concern. As far as Derek knew, she and Boyd had never interracted, certainly not long enough for Boyd to develop any sort of fondness to explain such concern. But then, hearing quiet weezing and the unmistakable sound of muffled sobs, even Derek felt a bit protective.

Frowning even more severely, he strode towards the back of the wagon, but as he approached he heard her suck in a shaky yet determined breath. He paused to listen as she released it slowly, then dragged in another, steadier one. As he stood in silence, head unconciously cocked in a classic canine pose, she got her breathing back under control and her heartbeat followed, albeit somewhat sluggishly. Eventually he heard her slouch back with a heavy sigh, muttering something in a dark tone under her breath. He couldn't understand whatever language she and Scott used, but he could guess at the meaning.

Derek turned to find Boyd watching him cautiously, far more relaxed now that their captive was breathing easily. Boyd arched a brow and Derek scowled at him. It was as ineffective as it usually was on all those who knew him well, but at least Boyd had the decency to look away after only a few moments. With a soft, grumpy huff, Derek twisted on his heel and stalked off to his tent, resisting the urge to mutter something unflattering to himself; there were people who would hear him, after all.

Stiles ran a hand over her sweaty face, grimacing to herself. She had succumbed to panic. Again. That was _unwise._ Or rather, absolutely stupid, considering she was completely surrounded by enemies and the unknown. She should know better than the leave herself so open in such a situation. Hell, she _did_ know better. But then, what else was there for her to do? In the midst of a battle or situation that required her full attention, Stiles never panicked. Under pressure, she was at her best, after all. Remove the adrenaline, though, the air fraught with tension and hearts racing with danger, and she could no longer keep the panic at bay. It wasn't any sort of new knowledge; considering her father and her commonly known friendship with Viche's royalty and various notable nobles, this wasn't the first time she had ever been kidnapped. It was the first time she had been taken for more than a few hours though. So, no, she wasn't surprised that she had had several panic attacks thus far; she had panicked a few times when kidnapped, when she was left alone with her thoughts.

However, surprise or not, she was disappointed in herself. In the years since someone last managed to take her hostage, she had begun to hope that she had outgrown that particular habit. Unfortunately, considering she was evidently still prone to them at 23, she doubted she would ever completely outgrow them. Maybe when she was a brittle old woman, assuming she was lucky enough to live that long.

Letting out another sigh, she leaned forward to brace her elbows against her knees. Her amber gaze skittered away from the rug spread over the wagon floor, eying the nondescript wooden bowl and equally plain wooden spoon from dinner. At least Scott would return soon for those. For the last five days he had eaten with her, but he had sheepishly informed her that tonight he was under the watchful eye of Erica. Eating alone had been particularly unpleasant, full of memories of all the people she usually ate with.

Stiles scuffed a stocking'd foot over the rug, thinking longingly of her boots rather than the things that had lead up to her panic attack. They were nice boots, worn down to comfortableness but still nice enough to be worn for years more through the palace, so long as she kept them oiled. After that she would happily retire them for use only on her travels, or hand them off to someone on the street if her current just-for-travels pair hadn't worn down considerably by then. There weren't many homeless in Viche, but there were plenty without boots half as nice as her entirely-worth-the-price ones. Considering how much time she spent on her feet, Stiles never had qualms about indulging herself when it came to shoes, although she had nowhere near Queen Lydia's exceptional collection. All the more reason for them to return her boots. Hopefully, whenever and however she got free, she would be able to reclaim all of her possessions, boots included.

She wriggled her toes, crinkling her nose in disapproval at the beginnings of a hole in her stocking. As to be expected considering how long she had been wearing them, and how often she had sat just staring at her feet and wriggling them. When they began to tear, perhaps she would ask Scott for a new pair.

With a quiet grumble, Stiles flopped back in the seat to stare at the canvas of the wagon and leave her poor feet in peace. That lasted about three whole seconds before she started to feel like her brain was gnawing on itself. An exasperated puff of air somehow merged with an indignant squawk and she writhed on the seat in a violent expression of utter boredom. There was no planning to do, nothing to read, no one to _talk to._ Stiles was going to go mad before she even had holes in her stockings. Knowing she would find exactly the same amount of nothing she had found the last time she grew too bored to bare it(approximately three hours earlier), she began to methodically search her own body and all of the wagon within reach of the chain, which was nearly all of it, for anything of use. A bit of wire or a deck of cards, maybe some _pebbles_. Desperation thy name was Stiles.

On her second methodical but entirely unenthusiastic pass through the wagon, the back flap jerked open, and Scott was immediately scrambling in with a yelped greeting of, " _Allow me to intrude!_ " Apparently whoever had taught Scott the old tongue had seen fit to make sure he actually knew the proper greetings, even those for entering someone else's home. Or at least, their current place of residence, like the wagon she was chained up in. Relief pulsing through her, she flung herself back down into her seat and grinned as he sprawled comfortably in the seat across from her. He held up what she could immediately identify as a bedroll.

" _I got you a newt one,_ " Scott told her cheerfully, wagging the bedroll in her direction. " _Becarse you said you would cold, right?_ "

" _Thanks, Scott, that will help so much,_ " she hummed gratefully as she accepted the bedroll, already able to tell the vast difference between the old and battered one she had found in the wagon on the first night, and this one, heavier and thicker and all around better. It was good to make friends with your kidnappers. Stiles hugged the bedroll tightly as she looked up to beam at Scott again. " _You never told me,_ " she started, casual as can be. " _Who taught you Vichian? It's not exactly the most common language to learn, let alone teach._ "

Scott's grin turned sly, head ducking a bit so that his dark curls flopped across his forehead. " _A, uh, a friend. He has teached me a lot of thing. You would meet in the castle him._ " Oh, so close. Stiles winced faintly in sympathy for her beloved language. How was she even supposed to correct that? In a non-blatant fashion, at least. She promptly decided she wouldn't bother. Stiles was very much not a teacher, not of languages at least. She had no patience for such things. Teaching by example though was something she was fully capable of.

" _'I will meet him at the castle'?_ " she parrotted--partially, at least--back at him with a slanted smile. Her eyebrows put on a goofy little dance as she leaned towards him, managing a wink that at least didn't scrunch her whole face up. Stiles had been practicing that wink for over a decade, and yes she was damn proud of it. " _How mysterious._ " Scott blushed faintly at the teasing. Feeling oddly satisfied, she sat back once more, face relaxing into an easygoing smile. " _Well, in any case, I look forward to meeting him. I mean, assuming he's nice. He is, right? Nice?_ "

As her brows dipped into a concerned expression, Scott was hasty to nod and reassure her that, "Yeah, _yes, definitely. Like, real nice. He does the--the heals, you know?_ Oh man what's the word. Uh, physician?" He peered hopefully at her, mouth all twisted up and face scrunched. Stiles knew better than to give away any knowledge of Scott's language that she didn't absolutely have to. She had already broken that rule, multiple times, in fact. Where was the harm in a little more? Actually, ignore that question.

" _Medic?_ " she supplied helpfully, tone pitched high in uncertainty. Scott's face lit up, warming the cockles of her heart. Whatever cockles were.

" _That is it!_ Yes! Yep! _Yeah. Thanks. Deaton--that is name--is our medic. For the castle, I mean. But he treat the, the aminials--_ "

" _Animals_ ," Stiles interjected.

Scott nodded, " _Animals_ ," as if he had thought of it himself. " _Not just the ones in castle. Any aminal--_ " oh, bother; close enough. _"Any aminal bringed to him, he treat, or one of his assists treat. Like I say, he is real nice._ "

" _Then I look forward to meeting him,_ " Stiles told him, although she wasn't entirely sure just how trustworthy Scott's judgment was, considering he also appeared to think _she_ was nice. Was she nice, actually? Barring her current lies, she was generally an honest person. But she was also usually more a jerk to people, specifically people who weren't currently holding her hostage. So no, she was definitely not nearly as nice as Scott thought. " _Is there anyone else I should look forward to meeting?_ " An executioner maybe? Stiles mentally winced, because that question had probably been far too blunt, even if she had kept the executioner bit purely internal. Fortunately, Scott was even more relaxed with her now than she had realized. He grinned at her, easygoing and eager.

" _My mate,_ " he told her happily, probably unaware he had used such an ironically appropriate word. " _We joined hands only last summer. She will be there, meet you. I think you will like. Allison is very nice._ " Stiles' brows launched into her hairline, spine straightening as her eyes widened marginally.

"Princess Allison?" she blurted, over-loud, startling Scott into a little jolt. Stiles hastened to cover up the slip of the tongue, to distract Scott before he could think too hard on it. " _She came to the city once, a long time ago. I remember her._ " She could have gone on--told him how Allison had joined their little group of like-aged noble children for the few days she was there, how much fun the lot of them had had, the mischief they had gotten into, and how Lydia had locked herself up and cried after Allison left until Stiles climbed in through her bedroom window to bring the little princess treats. But she kept that knowledge tightly to herself; so far she had yet to learn anything of what these people knew of her, for they had addressed her only by her last name and her status as her father's daughter, and she dared not risk helping them. She could only hope she had not given too much away already, and be grateful that Scott was not the most observant of people.

Scott grinned widely at her, starry-eyed to the point of making Stiles feel a bit queasy. " _Allison is very memorable,_ " he told her dreamily. Stiles didn't bother to hide her grimace.

" _You are one of those sickeningly doting husbands, aren't you?_ " she accused. Rather than take offense though, Scott ducked his head with a shy sort of grin, running a hand roughly through his curls, which was answer enough. Stiles groaned, but there was laughter in the noise. " _You are, you totally are. Oh by the gods you're probably absolutely disgusting together._ " He grinned at her and she smiled back at him, happy in the knowledge that no matter how much she hurt him with this friendship, there would be someone to comfort him. Allison was probably good at comforting. She leaned back in her seat, pulling her legs up, only to drop them back down when the manacles dug in to her ankles. Scott gave them a dirty look at the same time she did. He opened his mouth, anger a shock of fire in his eyes. Whatever he was about to say was lost however as one of the guards slapped the side of the wagon, startling Stiles into a very adult-like squeak.

Scott glared after the guard before flashing her his usual apologetic smile. He picked up her bowl as he stood. " _Guess that is my sign,_ " he told her. " _I will see you in the sunrise. Get some sleep. We will arrive tomorrow, and you will need energy._ " His head bobbed towards the sleeping roll she still held, and she dipped her head towards him.

" _In the morning then,_ " she agreed. " _Good night, Scott. Sleep well._ "

" _Good night, Stiles_ ," he murmured, sounding reluctant. He none the less slipped from the wagon and padded off, leaving her with only the bedroll and the little oil lamp that saved her from complete darkness. Hugging the bedroll tightly, Stiles let her mind wander.

Fifteen years ago, Princess Allison had been a daring, kind-hearted little girl with a blinding smile. She and Jackson, then only the son of a duke, had been in agreement for once and both instantly developed childish crushes on the visiting princess. Lydia had been agressive at first, angry at finding herself no longer the center of attention, but even she had been won over by Allison's dimples, and maybe by the fact that Allison had agreed to help her learn how to ride a horse. Well, a pony; little princesses were not allowed on horses alone, but there had been plenty of ponies for learning on, and Allison had been a good teacher to Lydia's quick learner. They had played at swordfighting with sticks, and stolen muffins from the kitchen, and the other girls had gotten Stiles into a dress while Jackson laughed. Lydia had forced him to wear ribbons in his hair the rest of the day, and while Isaac and Danny had also been adorned with ribbons, Stiles had always felt like Lydia championed her that day. The few days Allison spent with them were packed full of such good memories, ones Stiles and her friends still occasionally reminesced about. It was laughable then that she would finally be able to meet the princess again under such circumstances.

" _I should have saddled up and visited far sooner,_ " Stiles remarked aloud, leaning back against the canvas. " _Dear Allison, from what I have heard, you have had a very tough time. I am a terrible friend for not coming to your aide. Hopefully I will have the opportunity to ask your forgiveness._ " Closing her eyes, Stiles allowed her mind to drift, given the chance for planning for the first time in days, even if those plans revolved only around a reunion with an old friend. 

When the lamp was growing dim and Stiles' mind had finally turned ideas over enough to wear itself out, she rolled out the bed roll on the rug between the wagon benches, doused the lamp's tiny flame, and settled in for another fitfull sleep.

Boyd paused outside of Derek's tent, well aware his prince would have heard him approaching. He had only to wait a few moments before Derek called out, "Come in, Boyd." Ducking in to the tent, Boyd moved to stand before the desk Derek set up every night. Even out on a mission Derek had work, although Boyd suspected most of the time Derek was merely reading. The prince didn't even bother being particularly subtle about it, the book he had likely only just closed sitting directly on the desk before him, cover obscured by a few pieces of parchment marked by the queen's looping handwriting. Boyd allowed his expression to turn judgmental, knowing Derek expected it, and enjoying the usual scowl Derek presented in response.

"Would you tell my mother if I were so horribly uncouth as to ask you to tell me only if there were something of interest my cousin and our prisoner spoke of today?" Derek inquired, almost plaintive. Boyd couldn't blame him; it was bad enough listening to Scott's enthusiastic recounting of his interractions with 'Stiles,' he could only imagine how much more boring it would be to listen to his own emotionless reports. He shrugged at Derek in response.

"The only thing I would have to tell you, if you did request as much, is that she reacted to Scott's mentioning of Allison with recognition. I was there to hear it, in fact; she exclaimed 'Princess Allison' in Common, then apparently told Scott she recalled Allison visiting her city 'long ago.' Her Common sounded, to me, remarkably clear, although those two words aren't much to go by." At this, Derek frowned in thought, nodding absently as he scrutinized the desk. He thought a while about this as Boyd stood patiently by, long accustomed to Derek's extended bouts of brooding silence. Eventually he sighed, thumping a fist against the desk softly.

"Right. Well, tell me the rest then, I suppose," he commanded, resigned to his fate, and Boyd stoically obeyed. Who was he to deny his superior officer this particular brand of torture?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a bit of a short chapter. But hopefully the next one will be longer, and more satisfying. I know this one feels like it's just filler, but I really wanted this one to happen like this, and while I debated just continuing, I ultimately decided to break it off here with a bit from Boyd.
> 
> Also I'm sorry if anyone seems ooc. Oops?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something of a flashback explaining current events, a visitor, and other happenstance as Stiles continues to be held hostage for unknown reasons.
> 
> But the real question is, will she ever be reunited with her boots?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! Who wants to hear just how Stiles got kidnapped in the first place?
> 
> Since this was technically intended to be a drabble, I never actually typed this up, but well. Hey look, I typed it up now.
> 
> I realized I kind of made some mistakes. Quite a few mistakes. Which is what I get for turning a drabble into a series without any planning. So in fitting with the image in my head, I changed the time between Stiles being kidnapped and "Current Events" to a month, because a week seemed too short since I don't imagine Lycan's capital to be all that close to Viche. But yeah, I'm pretty random about the stuff I'm actually willing to research, and I'm skimping on a lot of details in favor of just story-ing. Questions in the comments help me to decide what details to expand on, and remind me of when I forget things(seriously there's some important as hell questions I still don't even know the answer to, so.)
> 
> I'll go back and edit the first two chapter to reflect the change in time later.
> 
> I regret the way I have everything ordered right now, with the "flashback"(sort of) just thrown willy-nilly in. Don't be surprised if I completely rearrange this at some point.

Approximately One Month Prior to Current Events

 

Stiles tugged at the high collar of her tunic, tracing the gilded edge with her fingertips. The rich teal of the silk was a stunning contrast against gold and darker teal embroidery, displaying flowing imagery of indecipherable shapes implying mythical beasts and flowers in every careful stitch. The tunic alone was a piece of artwork, worth at least ten times its weight in gold, the work of one of the finest seamstresses in the city. It the the most beautiful piece of clothing Stiles owned, and one of six decorative tunics she was actually willing to wear, all done by the same seamstress; she was the only seamstress Stiles ever went to, on account of her being the only one willing to dress Stiles in breeches even for court regalia. Without Stiles getting verbally violent, at least. The dark brown breeches Stiles wore beneath the tunic, tucked into the tops of her boots, were another piece from the seamstress, embroidered with a very modest amount of gold along the seams to compliment the tunic. The loose cream undershirt with its elegant poet sleeves was a shirt picked up during her travels though, same as the boots, both not quite to standard Vichian fashion but not enough so to be considered exotic. With her dark hair braided and coiled at the back of her head, her uneven bangs carefully pinned back, Stiles felt like a peacock.

Stiles doubted peacocks felt as displeased with their appearance as she herself did though, so perhaps she felt less like a peacock and more like a disgruntled, sopping wet hawk. Or, considering her sleeping habits, perhaps an owl. She counted herself lucky at having escaped without makeup, and she had even retained her cloak, since the deep brown cloth with its modest gold trimming technically matched, although most would consider the fur lining within a bit much for early summer. Lydia had expressly forbid her from raising the hood, under penalty of sparring with Jackson, and had similarly 'requested' that Stiles _keep her damn mouth shut_.

So with the cloak draped over her shoulders, hood hanging morosely between her shoulder blades, Stiles stood at her father's right, who in turn stood to the right of Lydia's throne. Jackson was stood on her left, followed by Isaac. Only Danny didn't stand with them, namely because they were all in agreement that Danny should never be seen as being in a place of trust when greeting foreigners, particularly those of the important variety. He was carefully tucked into the debatably secret room beneath the throne's platform, listening in while relying on Stiles to keep a keen eye out for anything visibly of interest. It was old hat by this point, this routine of theirs, and would almost be enjoyable if not for how utterly dreary it all was, and how confining the tight tunic apparently _had_ to be. It was _fashionable_ after all, according to both Lydia and Heather, the seamstress. It was also fortunately a "lasting fashion," which meant Stiles had been able to wear more or less the same court clothing for four years and would likely be wearing them for a decade more, longer if she could get stray outside of fashion and they managed to keep.

Lydia's dresses were, of course, always the height of fashion. At the moment, for women--at least, those not of Stiles' persuasion, wearing her 'manly clothing'--that meant an almost obscenely low blouse and, much to every lady's relief, a very loosely bound corset. The lacy sleeves, ending in delicate little poufs of cloth, were apparently some new fad started by a lady known for being "ahead of the times." That Lydia had picked it up meant that every court lady would be sporting such sleeves before the week was out. Stiles thought they looked ridiculous, though she dared not voice such a thought to Lydia, and looked forward to the next fashion. For the ladies' sake, she merely hoped neither hoop skirts nor exceptionally tight-laced corsets would return to the high fashion any time soon. Or ever, if she was being perfectly honest. Wigs were out as well, and would likely remain out until Lydia no longer had such spectacular red hair.

"Archduke Stilinski and his daughter, Miss Stilinski," the herald crowed in his silky voice from the foot of the stairs, gesturing towards them, which meant Stiles had zoned out enough to miss whatever greetings had been exchanged, as well as the introductions of their majesties and Isaac. She wasn't concerned; Danny would fill her in on anything important, just as she would share with him how one of their guests, a prince if she was any judge(and she was), had an air of disapproval that appeared to be directed towards Lydia, while another man of similarly sharp features that looked to be his brother was trying to hide an attraction to Isaac(of a sexual nature).

As her father bowed, Stiles gripped the edge of her cloak, drawing it before her and dipping her torso in a meld of curtsy and bow. It wasn't a tradition native to Viche, but rather something she had adopted and adjusted somewhat from a curious little country she encountered on her travels. Lydia approved, saying it was charming, and Stiles was glad not to have to perfectly mirror her father, as she would otherwise be expected to. As far as most others knew, she was training to be the Archduke's replacement, onto which people would always tack, "placing her next in line for the throne!" Which people strangely translated to "Stiles is next in line for the throne" followed hastily by "Stiles is practically a secondary queen," all of which was absurd and technically incorrect.

First of all, Jackson would obviously take the throne before her. No wait, first and foremost, _Lydia was outliving all of them._ That was important. But barring that, Jackson would take the throne before Stiles was allowed near it. More, her father would take it first, and probably Isaac, since he was Lydia's cousin, although Archduke did technically outrank second-Prince. If Isaac turned down the throne, then it would fall to Stiles, who would accept it because Danny had more important things to do than to be king. And that was all ignoring the fact that Stiles had no doubt in her mind that Lydia would conceive sooner rather than later, thus adding another heir to come before Stiles. In fact, she was fairly confident the only reason Lydia hadn't already conceived was a combination of stress and a shortage of time or energy necessary for, well, conception. Stiles, who was everyone's confident when Danny was unavailable, knew Lydia's cycles had been off for years, although she had only brought it to a medic's attention recently, when she realized she would need an heir. Lydia would likely not put actual effort into conceiving for several years yet, but Stiles wasn't concerned, unlike many of the older people she overheard muttering about such things.

As her cloak settled back down, Stiles straightening up to stand tall and proud by her father, she tuned out the goings on again. The words filtered through her mind, but passed under the buzzing of her thoughts to wait and be picked apart later, with Danny's notes to help. Her eyes picked up on every subtle signal the men threw off, making notes of their individual features and clothing. Neither of the two princes, she gathered, we very high-ranking nor well-respected, although they clearly wanted the Vichians to believe otherwise. Their clothes were pure foppery, fresh and crisp, but her eyes had spent long enough with Lydia to know lesser materials when she saw them. Lydia would be able to pick out exactly how lesser they were, but Stiles didn't currently require that level of detail.

None of the men were exceptionally clean-shaven, although all appeared to have shaved sometime in the last week. Perhaps they had not had any shaving equipment since their last stay in an inn outside of Viche. She wondered at that, considering if they might have elected to not stay in an inn, or if they were generally not of the clean-shaven sort. The latter would not surprise her, since as she recalled, shaving had been neither fashionable nor unfashionable last she had visited their land, though admittedly that had been over a year past. The former, though, that was worrisome. Their party was small, only five men all told, and all showed signs of having been traveling for several weeks. Only several weeks, however, which was all the more worrisome for the only nation capitals that would house princes that were within a few weeks travel, were not the country these men claimed to be from. It had taken her over a month to reach their country, in fact, and while her travels had been leisurely, they had not been _that_ leisurely. Stiles resisted the urge to lay her hand on her sword or one of her trinkets. Warning bells were chiming in her head, but so long as these men claimed to come with royal sanctuary, she could do nothing about it without direct provocation. Their entry papers seemed real enough, at least enough to pass their gates, guarded by men who were quite good at their jobs. They were either very good forgeries, or these men knew a shorter path than she had taken, or else had ridden very hard. She hoped very much it was not the first one; they had all only just recently managed to begin getting a full night's worth of sleep, even if Stiles and Danny tended to keep odd hours. Even Lydia was looking well-rested.

Stiles' gaze flickered from the 'princes' to their three companions. A severe and intelligent-looking man, a dark-eyed serious fellow who looked only at Lydia, and a big, dark-skinned man who seemed to study each individual with a stoic subtlty that set Stiles' teeth on edge. Having picked out the dangerous one, she relaxed her shoulders, adjusting her stance so that she could list ever so slightly to the side, bumping shoulders with her father. He bumped her back, acknowledging her, and gave her cloak a faint tug when it fluttered by his fingers, carefully tugging it in the opposite direction in which the dangerous man stood. He had recognized the danger too.

Making her face reflect the faintest amount of disappointment, she straightened back up, letting her eyes bounce around and trusting her father to keep his gaze trained on the threat. They were a cohesive unit, a flawless team who each knew what place they filled in their personal puzzle. True enough, in their personal interactions they could be downright volatile with each other, and their friendships had nearly fallen apart as many times as any friendships would over the course of two decades, but even in the midst of fighting each other they were a team. With Lydia as their ambitious leader, they had been training for it since they were children, without any adult even aware of it, until they realized they would need said adults' help and began to bring in those who would fill the gaps they had in their puzzle. When Lydia's parents died, a gaping hole had been left, a hole which still worried all of them, but they were still high-functioning, and eventually they would find some way to fill that two-person hole, even if the late king and queen could never be replaced.

By the time nearly an hour had passed and Lydia finally agreeably dismissed their visitors, they were somehow no closer to knowing just why they were in Viche, the two princes who spoke for the five of them both surprisingly adept at evading even the most direct of inquiries. They left for guest chambers Lydia invited them to, and as the rest of the gathered individuals left the throne room, they all joined Danny underneath the platform to stew in frustration whilst comparing notes. None of them were at all pleased, but all agreed there was nothing to be done.

"I don't believe they're at all who they claim to be," Danny sighed. They all nodded or hummed agreement. Isaac shifted to stand by Stiles and, sensing his need for touch, she leaned in to him. Isaac relaxed instantly, tucking a purely platonic arm around her waist. The youngest member of their group was a sensitive one, with rather particular needs. They had taken a long time to realize what he needed was not to be treated delicately, or to have touching him avoided, but rather to be touched as often as possible with confidence and kindness. Lydia, the demanding little princess that she was, had convinced her mother to send Isaac's father off to another city entirely, and similarly demanded that Isaac stay and be her playmate. They had all been quite upset to realize the sort of home life their dear friend had. The moment Stiles had reacted on instinct and hugged the boy when he seemed particularly sad, and he relaxed into her embrace so obviously, they had all made it a point to touch him whenever possible. Isaac had eventually learned to request such touches when he needed it, although he still did so only silently and usually with subtle gestures or expressions. Stiles was particularly well-versed in such requests for attention, and also particularly willing to throw herself at him at any time or place. Most people in the castle were convinced the two of them were in a not-so-secret elicit relationship, and neither of them gave much of a care. Those who mattered knew the truth, and that was enough.

"The big one, he was studying us," Stiles stated, absently petting the arm around her waist. John nodded in grim agreement.

"It may just be my fatherly paranoia, but he looked a lot closer at Stiles than I'm comfortable with, and he looked pretty close at Isaac too. He paid everyone attention, but he was definitely looking for a weak link in the chain."

"By standing on the outside of the group, we both give the impression of being that weak link," Isaac spoke up. "We know that--Hell, we planned that."

"But are they looking to exploit you by bribery, or something more violent?" Lydia wondered aloud, and was met with only grim silence. No one knew, and none of them liked when that happened. Despite the cramped spaces of the needfully tiny room, none of them had any problems fitting themselves around, even with only two chairs to go around. Since Isaac still seemed touch-hungry, Stiles lounged in his lap while Danny stood close enough that he was just shy of leaning against Isaac. Lydia of course sat in Jackson's lap, and John remained standing, as he probably would have even if there were a chair available. They remained there, discussing possibilities about the "guests" as well as their usual chatter, so long that a servant brought them tea and treats. By the time a second servant came around to check on them, they had dissolved mostly into idle chatter. John took this as his cue to leave, knowing someone would fill him in should he miss anything; they were long past the phase of lying to the Archduke. Unless Stiles felt like her lying skills were getting rusty, or her compulsive tendencies reared their head.

Eventually a servant came to inquire about their plans for supper and they all agreed it would be best if Lydia and Jackson take supper with the guests in private quarters, along with Stiles and Isaac. On the chance that they were correct in assuming the foreigners were to exploit a weak link, they decided to fabricate one in the form of Stiles, which meant the subtlest sort of show. Since they had decided Stiles would suit this role best, she cheerfully returned to her chambers to "gussy up." Lydia and Jackson would likely change outfits entirely, being of that inclination, but Stiles merely spiced her attire up, attaching various pins, chains and ornaments to her tunic, as well as fixing a few into her hair. She jabbed earrings through her lobes, wincing as the left one was forced to reopen. The right one hung far heavier than the left; she gave it an affectionate little tap. With gold and gems glittering on her fingers, she twisted a maroon sash low around her hips, tying a thin gold rope around it with a tiny bow in the front, two scarlet droplets hanging from the ends of it. The outfit, when she was done, was horrifically gaudy. Cringe-worthy and terrible. Stiles gave her reflection a disgusted look, fingering the handle of her sword, which was fortunately decorative enough to be acceptable at dinner parties, even the private ones.

She finally undid her cloak's tight ties, although she didn't shed it. Instead, she held it carefully in place as she used an elaborate broach to pin it in place. The broach made her feel better about the whole outfit, the familiar sight of a delicate gold dragon curling in a gentle embrace around ruby. There was, upon close inspection, a gold book braced between the dragon's paws, changing the image completely; instead of coveting the jewel, he was using it as a desk at which he read. Since she was a child, Stiles had always been helplessly charmed by the image of that apparently book-loving dragon. She had always protested stories in which dragons were evil because of it, refusing to listen to any of them unless her mother changed the story altogether. Half her wardrobe had that damn dragon on it, secreted away in dainty stitches or delicate carvings when not blatantly broadcasting itself to the world. Or at least, to the keen-eyed observer who knew what to look for. Which, only a handful of people outside of their own little circle had a clue what that dragon meant, so none of them were actually very blatant. The brooch was the most obvious one, actually.

Ensemble complete, Stiles stepped back to get a look at herself in the full-length mirror. Yes, it was just as ridiculous and gaudy as she remembered. Goody. Stiles had no doubt in her mind that she would be but a pale moth to Lydia's elaborate butterfly no matter what she wore, but it still left her feeling like a sparrow powdered, puffed and gilded. On the up side, she looked completely amazing and everyone had better appreciate it or she would have to ask one of the court physicians to check their eyes, maybe order up some bifocals.

Throwing a smirk at her reflection, she mentally promised herself a particularly comfortable outfit later and a good book, then strode purposefully away. A single step outside her door, she was immediately accosted by Danny and a woman she recognized as one of Lydia's ladies in waiting.

"Really?" Danny demanded, sounding offended. "You're wearing exactly the same thing?"

"Hey!" Stiles protested, instantly defensive of her attire. "I'll have you know I spruced it up! Look! Brooch!" She defiantly held up the brooch as far as it would go when holding the cloak in place, which admittedly wasn't very far but it got the meaning across. Danny gave her a disgusted look.

"Just--just shut up, Stiles," he muttered, ushering her back into her quarters where he and the lady assaulted her. They were particularly short on time so they didn't actually change much. Mostly Danny just stood back looking disapproving while the woman fixed everything to his and her satisfaction, completely ignoring Stiles' squawks, as they were wont to do. They uncoiled and unbraided her hair, both of them growling highly uncomplementary things as they massacred the few tangles she had(she kept it braided for a reason; Stiles _hated_ combing), then redid it in a complicated braid that clung to her scalp, rearranging the hairpins as they saw fit and adding a flower that Danny pulled out of absolutely nowhere.

"A flower, Danny?" she growled, now glaring death threats at her reflection. " _Really?_ " She slipped into Vichian for a bout of curses, and Danny suddenly looked pleased.

"Yes, perfect. Speak Vichian," he ordered her, completely ignoring the fact he was not in any way her superior and acting like she would just obey him anyway. Damn him though, because she absolutely would. Danny was a genius and only idiots disobeyed geniuses, and Stiles was not an idiot by any means. "Just Vichian. Don't use Common. At all. I'd tell you not to open your mouth, but I know you did all of that that you're capable of in one day just standing in court today so I won't bother. But today you're old-school Vichian. Embrace it. Don it as a persona. Who knows, maybe one of them will fall for you and spill all their secrets. Flutter your eyelashes or something." Danny waved his hand dismissively, ever the charmer. Despite the fact that it was his fault she was still there, only a moment after he finished speaking, he fixed her with a glare, not even giving her the time to protest. "Well? What are you waiting for. Lydia will murder you with an axe if you're late, Stiles. Go!"

"Lydia would never murder someone with an axe, Danny," she scoffed even as she started hastily for the door; dammit Danny, now she was going to have to actually _run_. "That would be much too messy!" she called over her shoulder as she hightailed it out of there before Danny decided they had just enough time to add some color to her face.

She skidded to a halt down the hall from the small dining room Lydia always saw important guests in, panting hard. Stiles did not run. Stiles was not a runner. She was a jogger at best, a speed-walker maybe. She could walk tirelessly for miles and miles, but running. Running was not her thing. Technically she was a fast runner, because she was long-legged and had done a lot of running growing up and she was physically very fit; she had a runner's body, in fact, all lean lines and low body fat. But she did not like running. Mostly because she always forgot how to breathe until it was too late to correct it. No matter how many times her friends tried to teach her(the men with varying levels of hands-on and vocal "encouragement" based on their personalities, and Lydia with cryptic comments that suggested Lydia could run perfectly well or at least understood the mechanics behind it better than any runner, but Stiles had never seen Lydia run once in her entire life. She was fairly confident Lydia had run just as much as any child, but somehow Stiles just could not remember it. She suspected psychic intervention. Nothing Lydia had ever done or not done had ever disproved Stiles' psychic theories, and she was not as bothered by that as she probably should have been.) Stiles just could not learn "proper" running. There was only jogging, or running for her life, and being late to an appointment with Lydia was definitely a life-or-death situation.

So Stiles couldn't run, but she could at least get her breathing back under control. Thank you, panic attacks. She forced her lungs to cooperate, counting her breaths as she sucked in through her nose and out through her mouth, biting down on the desire to gasp like a fish. Slow, deep breaths. Slow, deep, breathe...With one last breath that swelled her chest and bolstered her false confidence, Stiles squared her shoulders and strode down the hall, smiling at the servant who held the door for her. Stiles was friends with most of the castle's inhabitants, no matter their rank, which earned her a secretive, crooked grin from the man. He was looking forward to a show, she could tell. She gave him a narrow-eyed look, which only made him begin struggling to fight back laughter. Oh yes, the castle knew her well, and they knew that there was always a spectacle to behold when Stiles met with strangers.

Since she was apparently going to be posing as a Weak Link and simultaneously not speaking Common tonight, they were not going to be disappointed. An entire night dedicated to Stiles either playing charades, or being translated for by one of her friends, if they so deigned. How absolutely delightful.

Once upon a time, Stiles liked charades. Oh how times had changed.

Naturally, everyone had arrived and seated themselves already. Stiles smiled her most brittle smile, trying to make it look genuine while hiding the fear for her own life as Lydia arched one perfect brow. The seat directly to Lydia's right was open, while at the other end of the table Isaac had taken Jackson's right. There was a prince beside Isaac, and a prince to Lydia's left, which left the two guards--handlers, whatever they were--to the right of Stiles' spot. Fortunately, the table was meant to comfortably seat over a dozen people, so there was plenty of room between the chairs, all empty chairs cleared out the moment Lydia declared her supper intentions.

Stiles chose her persona while standing there in the doorway, after a quick scan to take in the other chess pieces. There were quite a few to pick from when playing the Weak Link. Slim and female, fragile-looking, Stiles' obvious choice was to play someone timid and shy, someone easily manipulated who wasn't confident in her position. From the slumped angle of Isaac's shoulders, and the tilt to his head, she noted he was going for the In Love With A Monarch angle, which was a little too close to home for Stiles to favor herself. A Weak Link who loved their superior was potentially a tough nut to crack--in different ways depending on whether or not that superior was taken. Someone in love with their superior who stuck around once said superior was married could either be a very loyal person, or a very determined one. There were angles to be worked in any scenario, but that potential loyalty was dangerous. Stiles quickly--rather, instantaneously--debated over false bravado or her usual weak woman. She had to take in to account that she would be stuck speaking only Vichian, and that she had nudged her father, had acted the Bored Brat. The Bored Brat was not an openly weak character. Instead they were a mask-wearing, cocksure youth with cracks to pick at, often very visible cracks. But she was sitting at Lydia's right, and there was a flower in her hair. Lydia's reputation was as widely varied as it was spread, but none of the rumored queens would put a cocksure girl at her right without good cause. Stiles was an apprentice, this could be training, but that could give an air of treating these supposed princes as unimportant, could cause offense. They couldn't risk that when they were already treating them like enemies, on the off-chance they were who they said they were. But the delicate, weak-willed woman, the Wilting Flower, did not wear a dragon brooch.

So she chose an in-between. With a shy smile, she padded hastily around the table, passing behind Lydia without touching her. " _My apologies, Lady Queen,_ " Stiles murmured as she took a seat, in-character despite doubts that any of these four men spoke Vichian. Stiles did not take chances, not with her friends at stake. " _I was held up. Thank you graciously for sending your maid to assist me._ " Lydia's still-quirked brows finally smoothed. She had not sent her maid, of course, but it was hardly the first time Danny and the woman had taken sudden offense of Stiles' particular brand of fashion sense.

" _Of course, Lady Stilinski,_ " Lydia accepted graciously, reaching out to pat Stiles' hand. On cue, Stiles mustered another shy, hopeful smile. The Young Miss, working her way up to someone trusted and sure, but still bearing visible cracks. It wasn't Stiles' favorite character, but she could work with it. It still didn't quite fit the Bored Brat she had played off earlier, but she hadn't known she would need to do this act. She would just have to make up for her mistakes by being very enthusiastic about her character. Great. She could do that. Stiles was all about the enthusiasm. One might even say she was enthusiastic about enthusiasm. But one shouldn't, not in the presence of Queen Lydia at least; Stiles had once gone much too far with that line of thought and Lydia had physically assaulted her in a ply for silence or at least a change of topic.

"You will have to excuse Lady Stilinski," Lydia half-crooned to the rest of the table as Stiles smiled bashfully. "She is not yet fluent in Common."

The man beside Stiles, which of course just _had_ to be the overly observant one, the threat, gave her an indecipherable look. Making her already large eyes go even bigger and rounder, she looked to him with innocent confusion and a silent inquiry. His only response was to turn his attention elsewhere, hopefully focusing on the damn princes he was supposed to be guarding. In theory.

The last time Stiles pretended not to speak Common--which was called that for a reason; technically it was an actual language with a real name but _practically everyone_ spoke the language, and the huge country it originated in broke apart long ago--she had managed to pantomime herself into drinking with a lord and his friends, where she learned a lot of secrets, pretended to be outrageously drunk while dumping glass after glass into a poor unsuspecting plant, and was completely talked around. She expected much the same here(minus the drinking and the planticide), despite all three of her friends speaking Vichian, although only Lydia was fluent, and her expectations were cheerfully fulfilled. It wouldn't be boring though, not with a man she learned from the conversations was Sir Boyd watching her like a damn hawk out of the corner of her eye. She found herself constantly balancing careful calculation and acting "natural." It was _difficult_ , to say the least.

Only Lydia had ever looked as closely at one of Stiles' characters. Fortunately for Stiles, Lydia had in fact looked far closer and _absolutely cheated_ with personal knowledge to attack like a viper every time Stiles slipped out of character in the slightest. It was unexpectedly nerve wracking to have a stranger stare at her like that all the same. That was okay though; Stiles worked well under pressure.

Not a single thing of interest was discussed over dinner, although Lydia and Jackson occasionally tried to prod the conversation into more important directions. Somehow their attempts were always casually thwarted, questions subtly deflected, and Lydia's temper was growing with every delicate bite of lamb or sip of wine. Normally Stiles might have reached for her queen, murmured something reassuring and soothing, reminded Lydia why they were not eating their dinner guests. But normally Stiles didn't feel vaguely persecuted and on the verge of stabbing someone with an eating utensil, so Lydia simply continued to stew in growing fury as the night wore on and Stiles simply tried not to do something drastic. Eventually the guests were practically thrown from the room, though Lydia smiled charmingly as she suggested they might retire. The door clicked behind them and Lydia promptly picked up a knife and drove it into the table with an unnervingly calm face.

" _They are going to be difficult,_ " Stiles predicted mournfully. She had so hoped for a vacation. It was the first time she had spoken in several hours, and her face twisted in a grimace at the realization. Stiles had never been nor would ever be a silent person, by nature and will both. Isaac sighed, Lydia stomped off to throw herself at a sofa, and Jackson went to sit with his wife. They knew what was coming.

Stiles took to pacing the room frantically as she poured every single thought she had had during dinner out as fast as physically possible. She hoped Sir Boyd's ears burned over all the things she said about him, save for the part where she grudgingly admitted he was impressively vigilant. Lydia, riled up as well, kept interrupting, neither of them sticking to one language. Jackson and Isaac were left behind as the two women used each other as sounding boards and target practice, though they showed no signs of minding, other than to look particularly bored of it all. They had long ago grown bored of the show that was Lydia and Stiles when they got going. Their loss.

"And that's why we should just kill them!" Stiles wound up shouting at one point, which signaled the end of their serious conversation and the beginning of the four of them plotting more and more outrageous ways to get rid of their guests, naturally bringing up every other person they would really just like to be rid of. It was late by that point, far later than any of them had intended, and they broke up to head to their respective rooms. Isaac and Stiles walked arm-in-arm for most of the way, since their rooms were close. They didn't say much, both too exhausted by their respective performances.

" _Watching you make doe-eyes at Jackson is a wonderful experience,_ " Stiles teased him sleepily as they neared the turn where they would separate. Isaac snorted at her.

" _You not talking for three hours was great,_ " he told her in simplest Vichian, enunciating over-careful but better than she remembered him able to. She snorted right back at him, jostling him roughly. They were both chuckling when they separated, calling out good nights as they wandered off.

Stiles yawned as she meandered towards her room, mind wandering drowsily. Tomorrow would be more of the same that dinner had been. Maybe, if she tried very hard, she could at least avoid Sir Boyd. Or perhaps the library would need her immediate and extended attendance. That would be just perfect. If she hadn't been so tired, she would have noticed the dragon brooch burning a warning into her throat far sooner. As it was, she was trying to backpedal out of her room just a moment too late. She didn't even manage to get out a shout before something heavy collided with the back of her head and everything systematically went dark. She caught a flash of twisted features and glowing yellow eyes just before she went down, which was not at all helpful.

When she came to, it was with a throbbing head and a fair amount of disorientation. She did not recall drinking nearly enough for this sort of headache. Stiles groaned, rolling her head as she refused to attempt opening her eyes before assessing herself. She was sitting up, for some ghastly reason. Hopefully she had not fallen asleep in Lydia's parlor again; Jackson had never grown out of his childish tricks, and a sleeping Stiles was usually just too good an opportunity for him to pass up. As far as she could tell, she was fully clothed, minus her tunic, cloak, and boots. And all of her weapons. _All_ of her weapons, oh lord, Stiles was never weaponless. If this was one of Jackson's pranks she would have his head, king or no. She pried her eyes open, and found a puppy staring at her. A completely unfamiliar puppy with floppy hair and skin as dark as Danny's. Stiles took a moment to appreciate all of his features, because honestly they were quite nice. For a puppy. The faint crookedness of his jaw just made him cuter, which was unfair because none of her flaws made her cuter.

She shifted her feet, and was not entirely surprised to feel metal dig in to her ankles. It was still an unpleasant confirmation of her suspicions however, as well as what she identified now as not her head swimming but in fact the movements of a fast-traveling wagon on uneven ground.

" _Of course I have been kidnapped, and I went so long without that happening,_ " she remarked irritably to the canvas roof. She used Vichian out of habit rather than remembered acting; she frequently remarked to herself in the old tongue, so people were less likely to call her out on talking to herself. The puppy stirred, making a noise so like her chosen nickname for him that she almost wanted to laugh. Almost, except she was currently in the midst of being kidnapped, and the had taken not only her sword and dagger but all of her jewelry, much of which she had either gone through great trouble to obtain, or was a priceless artifact from the castle's library.

"So you really don't speak Common?" he whined, as Stiles decided to interpret the tone; she was stubbornly sticking to comparing him to a dog as much as possible lest she be forced to face the fact of her kidnapping. He surprised her though, a moment after she rolled her head again to glare at him. "Right, uh, okay, I think it's-- _mine apocalypse._ " What the _fuck._ Stiles stared at him in horror, because whatever he was trying to convey, it could not be good. At her look, the man fumbled a bit, looking mildly alarmed, so her face was definitely being its usual dramatic self. "No wait, that's--I guess that's not what I meant to say, I'm so sorry, I'm not very good at Vichian. Lemme try again, uh, right, maybe it's, _my apogigilly?_ "

" _Please tell me you are trying to apologize and not tell me about the impending doom of our world,_ " Stiles demanded, although she could guess at the answer by his hangdog expression. Ha, hangdog. That one wasn't even on purpose.

" _Yes? Think I, meet? Not good, my talk. Try can? None elseone speech any. Do--no..._ " He twitched his hands around, making an utterly frustrated expression. " _Scary._ " She assumed he was trying to tell her not to freak out and not that she should not be scary, because she was distinctly not in a position to be particularly scary unless she decided to work on some psychological torture, which was really Lydia's forte more than hers. Hell it was Jackson's more than hers. Their majesties were sort of terrifying. " _Will no pain._ "

Stiles nodded slowly to indicate her understanding before he could put either of them through further pain. " _Well, in that case, I guess it falls to me to teach you Vichian properly,_ " she decided, already starting to plot. Right on cue, her stomach growled so loud that the puppy heard and grinned. Although it actually hadn't been very loud at all. They were in a small wagon with only about a foot of space between them though, so it wasn't all that strange. " _You can pay me with food. Go on, fetch. I'll be here._ " She graciously indicated the chain keeping her there, but was grinned at anyway.

"Food, right, I can do that," he said, nodding emphatically. He scrambled to his feet and out of the wagon, only to turn around and grin at her again. "Almost forgot, I--uh, _my name is Scott._ " Oh boy that actually sounded like Vichian, how exciting.

Stiles dipped her head to him, managing a smile that felt entirely fake but visibly cheered the puppy--Scott, apparently. " _Call me Stiles,_ " she instructed. Scott practically vibrated in place for a moment, then he was ducking away, hopefully to get her food.

Heaving a heavy sigh, she slouched back in the seat. Tentatively, she reached out with a mental hand, brushing her fingers against the distant feel of the library. Too far. She had been out for a while then, if they were already reaching the edges of Viche, if not past them completely. They wouldn't have been able to manage that in a wagon, so she had probably been slung over a horse, which explained how sore her body was. On the up side, she hadn't been awake for that. On the down side, if she had been awake, she could have accessed the wellspring beneath the city and probably gotten free.

" _The woes of a Librarian_ ," Stiles muttered, already missing the electric feel of the Library at her fingertips. Her feet, of all things, felt bereft without that familiar hum below her. It had never felt so bad on her travels, even when she traveled so far she reached lands not even recorded in their maps(until she remedied that, of course). But then, whenever she traveled by her own powers, she brought some of the Library with her. She stifled a whimper at how terrible alone she suddenly felt.

" _Ye gods of brimstone, sod and grain, give thine a blessing for toll'd tithes._ " Her voice rose in a mournful warble, the thick Vichian vocabulary dropping from her lips with more mesmerizing a croon than she ever managed in Common. The old transcribed lyrics curled in the heavy air of the wagon, creeping through cracks in the hide to push its way into freedom as yet beyond her reach. She refused to continue the old, familiar, haunting melody, and when her voice fell away, it seemed as if the whole world held its breath, a hushed silence interrupted only by the distant calls of birds and insects. Even if not even Scott would understand the words, she was not about to sing a song about a kidnapped traveler who only found "freedom" in death. She was often in poor taste, but was rarely so outright morbid. But there was hardly a trove of entertainment to be had within the downright barren wagon, which left her to literally and figuratively twiddle her thumbs, and perhaps doze a bit while she awaited Scott's return.

_Current Event_

Stiles was affectionately referred to as _the palace owl_ for good reason; if she made it out of bed before noon, people made jokes about miracles and the apocalypse, and she usually dozed off leaning against someone for a while. Usually she only woke up in the actual morning if she was specifically ordered to, or if she was out of the city, since both sightseeing and travel were best kept to daylight hours. People were suspicious of strangers who crept around in the dark, especially ones who wore cloaks, carried swords, and spoke with an unfamiliar accent, when not muttering in other languages entirely. With all her fidgeting and habitual mouthing off thrown in, Stiles balanced out her frankly suspicious or simply irritating personality with as much unsuspiciousness as possible.

That being said, she was not going to adjust her sleep schedule while being kidnapped, nosiree. She barely got any sleep at night anyway; she was not about to go waking up with the sun like the rest of the caravan. Although she stirred at the sounds of people moving about, she always curled right back up into dream land. It was a special skill of hers, one she had even been known to boast about; she could fall asleep anywhere, in any position, and stay there until someone roused her or she got hungry. Many a crick had been had over the years. She would probably have been sleeping pretty well at night even kidnapped, except her brain was full of questions and not a single answer; it made turning off difficult. Scott, sweetheart that he was, apparently figured this fact out early on and never brought her breakfast too early. Or maybe he just didn't get the chance to bring it until later. Either way, it worked out.

Apparently _somebody_ didn't get the damn memo though.

She woke to what was definitely the light of very early morning, sunrise early morning, as someone rudely yanked open the flaps of the wagon. The sun shrouded them, shadowing their features too much for her to recognize them beyond "not Scott." They were accompanied by the scent of cooked meat and herbs and fresh bread though, which was a pretty amazing thing to be accompanied by. After far too long living on nothing but hard travel bread and stew, it was even worth being worken up so early for. She dropped her gaze to an outstretched hand, blinking at a bundle of cloth. Experience gained from bribing many a people to save her a few breakfast rolls lent her the ability to easily recognize it as handkerchief-wrapped rolls. With a grin, she reached out to snag the cloth, taking note of long fingers marked by callouses she recognized from long-time sword-weilders. The fingers weren't as blunt or long as hers, and the sword callouses more severe than her own, which were softened by more time spent wrapped around books than weaponry. A warrior's hands, she made absent note of.

"Scott--" she started, prepared to 'fumble' through Common in order to ask where her friend was, but the shadowed figure shot her a look that raised the hair on her neck, accompanied by a flash of teeth that could have passed for a smile, if smiles were worn by vipers. The grin fading from her face, the flap dropped and whoever it was left with only the faint scuff of boots on dusty ground.

Stomach suddenly in knots, Stiles stared down at the wrapped rolls. Every day for the past week, Scott had brought her breakfast, lunch, and supper, plus jerky for munching on while they chatted. She suspected the jerky was all Scott's doing; he seemed convinced she was far too skinny. It had all been the standard fair for a large group of people traveling, the stew varying depending on what could be foraged or hunted nearby, and the bread growing increasingly hard but evidently stored well enough not to take mold.

She turned over the rolls in her hands, frowning as the cloth fell open, revealing crisp, flaky golden crust and wafting the heady scent of the rolls' contents even more strongly throughout the wagon. A few days earlier, they had picked up more bread, resulting in fresh bread for the day, and Scott had brought in some sweet pastries. No one had said as much, at least not in her hearing, but it wasn't hard to guess they had happened near a town. That had been the highlight of their travels, the only real difference in meal. There were no freshly baked rolls stuffed full of meat, no flaky crust or wafting scents.

Stiles carefully rewrapped the rolls, more securely than whoever had wrapped them before; clearly they were not pros like her. It could have been one of her friends, she considered. Not necessarily one of them themselves, since they certainly had more than enough foot soldiers and spies at their disposal who were better suited to infiltration anyway. But it seemed like a very Isaac thing to do, sending her good food to let her know they were near and that she should prepare to be rescued. Hell, he'd done it before, having one of her "guards" bring her a sticky bun and a smile.

But that smile had been wide and full of warmth, with eyes that glistened with concern and crinkled with faint humor. _'I heard you got yourself into a sticky situation,_ ' Isaac had told her, exactly as she expected, when they were reunited, and she had laughed so hard she cried, dragging her idiotic friend down into the dirt with her. When he told the story he had merely been supporting her as she collapsed, exhausted and slightly hysterical, but Isaac was a liar and a cad, as Stiles could attest.

This person had smiled like a person with a secret, one that would do no one but themselves any good. It could have been a trick of the light, or her overactive imagination; she had only just woken up, after all, and she had been known to have hallucinations when particularly low on sleep. But it rubbed her the wrong way, no matter how she thought about it. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more her stomach twisted, and the more she felt like hurling the rolls out of the wagon after stomping them into nonexistence.

Instead, she sat them on one of the benches, scooting them as far away as possible. With that done and nothing else to do, she curled back up on the bed roll and elected to sleep until Scott got there. If it was just her being paranoid, if Scott had just been too busy to bring her breakfast this morning, then he could tell her when he got there, and she could eat cold rolls. She was personally of the opinion that cold rolls tasted just fine anyway. Scott would probably be all sheepish and apologetic for the whole thing, she decided with a sleepy smile. They would laugh about it, after she made him stop thinking about the reason she was so paranoid was the fact that he and his comrades had kidnapped her, and she would eat the rolls and relax while they rode off towards Scott's home where she would meet Allison again. And then bad stuff would probably happen, but Stiles didn't focus on that, just directed her thought towards Scott and Allison as she fell back to sleep.

But no, of course not, nothing was ever that easy. Eventually Stiles was going to figure out who was in charge of this sort of thing and lodge a formal complaint.

The second time the wagon flaps were shoved open that day, the light that mercilessly brutalized her eyeballs was at least several hours later in the morning than the (ass)crack of dawn. That was something, at least, even if Scott's squawked greeting reminded her of hangovers. She opened one eye to glare at his obnoxious grin, all happy and puppy dog with a familiar bowl in hand. Her stomach growled the moment it recognized the significance of that bowl--the significance to her stomach being that it contained food. The significance to her brain was that it was still morning, even if it was leaning towards noon.

" _Sorry it's late,_ " Scott chirped as he scrambled into the wagon. " _Had a busy morn._ " Stiles had yet to figure out if Scott intentionally switched between 'morn' and 'morning' at random. She reached out to unceremoniously steal the bowl away, never trusting his ability to get inside without spilling. Just because it had never happened didn't mean it wouldn't. As soon as she had bowl and spoon in hand she was shoveling food in to her mouth with greedy abandon, absently glad as ever not to need concern herself over manners.

" _Did you sleep well?_ " Scott asked as he always did, but his words became distracted his brow furrowing as he sniffed. The first time he asked her he had said something along the lines of 'yon digging slippers jilt' and she could have sobbed over the butchering of the old, regal language. It was good to see her teachings at work. "What in--" He broke off, having spotted the offending bundle of handkerchief. If the cloth were not nearly the same color as the wagon's canvas he would likely have spotted it sooner. He was bristling instantly, eyes sliding to wolf gold. Each wolf's eyes changed in a different fashion, she had been fascinated to notice, or at least the three she had seen did. While Scott's eyes shuttered in a horizontal line running downwards, the damnable Sir Boyd's eyes would be overtaken be a diagonal slash of gold, and the blond woman's changed in a cascade of thin golden lines falling into place. They all took less than a heartbeat to change, but Stiles was a particularly observant sort. Such was her job, after all.

Stiles leaned obligingly back as Scott rocked forward, reaching out to snatch up the rolls with a subvocal snarl.

" _Where did you get these?_ " he growled, staring at them as if they might bite. Oh the irony. It burned.

Stiles rolled her shoulders, feigning casualty as she took another bite of stew. " _They were brought to me with the sunrise,_ " she told him, trying to sound mellow. Scott had confessed that he could hear right down to her heartbeat, and his nose was so keen he could literally smell emotions(she had forced him to describe the smells, which forced him to explain he wasn't smelling the emotions but rather sensing the various physical effects they had which he then almost unconciously translated, but she allowed him to call it 'smelling emotions' because when she had tried to explain it back, the poor dear had gotten puzzled.) That didn't stop her from pretending to be calm, trying to force her body to act as nonplussed as she was attempting to seem.

She needn't have bothered; Scott was up and out of the wagon without a word.

" _Leaving me to stew_ ," Stiles whispered, and snickered to herself.

Isaac would have appreciated that pun.

Lydia would have swatted her.

Danny and Jackson would merely have rolled their eyes.

Somehow, Stiles longed for all three reactions. And when she got them back, when they got her back, she might even admit it.

Scott's snarl had all of the wolves waiting only a dozen paces from the wagon, just enough to be out of their human captive's earshot. Derek was scowling when his cousin scrabble-fell out of the wagon, but Scott just shoved a bundle of cloth and scents into Derek's hands and let out another furious snarl before stalking off towards Derek's tent, the one with the thickest cloth and enough room that there wouldn't be any elbows in spleens or heads brushing against canvas.

The wolves all leaned in to sniff at the package, though technically they didn't need to, and simultaneously recoiled as the bad-wrong-no good scent mingling with cooked meat and yeast burned their sensitive nostrils. Erica let out a low whine. The three turned and followed quickly after Scott, all bristling without any information.

"Someone tried to kill her!" Scott barked savagely when the tent's heavy flaps closed behind Boyd. The biggest wolf took guard point there, crossing his arms and looking particularly stormy, particularly for a guy who rarely showed much emotion at all. Derek's frown now included a concern for just how attached his packmates were apparently growing to a _hostage_ for moon's sake.

Scott gawped at him, then stabbed a finger at the handkerchief-covered foodstuffs. He didn't say anything, just widened his eyes and gave Derek one of those looks his family was so good at, the ones he never really knew how to interpret but they always seemed to think they were appropriate substitutes for actual communication.

Derek sighed grumpily. "Why would someone go to the trouble of trying to poison our _hostage_ with," he paused, peeled open the securely wrapped package, and finished with, "breakfast rolls?" Good breakfast rolls too, baked with both excellent ingredients and equipment. "Did you smell anyone around the wagon? Strangers maybe?"

The younger wolf's eyes fell, hair flopping as he gave a little shake of his head. "No. I didn't even smell _those_ ," he gestured with a flash his his eyes, "until I was in the wagon, probably would have overlooked them if I wasn't so used to how Stiles' wagon smells. Walnuts and camolmile and old books. They don't disguise scents very well--and the moment I was out of there, its scent tripled."

"So, not only is someone trying to kill our captive, a _magic user_ is trying to kill our captive?" Scott nodded grimly, and Erica, of all people, cussed. He really was going to need to do something about his wolves' growing attachment to this woman. She didn't even speak Common; this shouldn't even have been a possibility! Only his stupid mutts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, the two "princes" in the flashback-y bit are not technically Ethan and Aiden, but as I have no plans to bring any of the alpha pack in at this time, you're welcome to picture them as Ethan and Aiden(I am, honestly. Think of it as a homage, and if I do bring them in eventually, I'll try to recall them as being in this scene. I didn't write them with werewolves in mind though, so...there's that.) And the "severe, smart-looking man" is Harris because I hate him and felt the need to mention him at least as an aside. You'll probably never see him in this series again because serious levels of hatred for him.
> 
> There'll be more flashbacks in the future, although not a great deal. Just some stuff to straighten out any confusion in the relationships between Stiles and the gang, and honestly just to indulge my desire to write about them as a unit and maybe throw some extra details about Stiles out there. There may be a few Derek or otherwise Hale-related ones, but I don't actually have any planned.
> 
> Tell me if there's anything confusing or if you've got any questions, btw. I'll try to answer them either in the next chapter, or in the notes of the next chapter, or by replying to your comment if that's most suitable.
> 
> Hopefully everyone's more comfortable with their knowledge of where all the characters stand now? I try to be subtle about things but sometimes I'm waay too subtle--or waaaay too obvious. Oopsie.
> 
> Stiles' "characters"(like the "Young Miss") are all made up by me, so the names aren't trope-accurate. Just things Stiles has come up with while reading books. So. In case you weren't yet sure if I try very hard for accuracy, I really don't.
> 
> I'm sorry Stiles didn't meet Derek in this chapter! I was hoping to get that in here, but I have like three txt files just for this chapter right now and it was getting really confusing and a bit irritating. But they'll meet soon I swear!


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